i like my coffee acidic
by sensanity
Summary: in which Dave is a server at a cafe who feels personally victimized by the universe. Warning for offensive language. oneshot.


_from a prompt I saw on a blog I follow. cross-posted to my dA (which has the link to the original prompt)._

_Write about a server that secretly despises everyone. Create a cynical tone. What does his/her thoughts consist of? Insults? Condescending remarks? What makes the character so spiteful?_

* * *

"Can I get you a refill?"

The man and woman sitting at the small table in front of you jump about a foot in the air and you swear you hear a _snap_ as their heads swivel simultaneously in the direction of your voice with speed that is only ever the result of near-heart-stopping shock.

"U-uh," the woman says as she regains her composure, wilting slightly under your unrelenting gaze (through your shades, you mean), "n-no thanks, I… think we're good!" The woman gives a tiny attempt at a cheerful, if nervous, grin. The man just raises one eyebrow before turning back to his girlfriend, content to let her speak for him.

Stupid fucking asshole, the least he could do is _answer_ you.

They're completely making a scene of themselves in the middle of your cafe (not… technically _your_ cafe, not legally, but hell, you're here frequently enough and you certainly work the most). They continue making gross googly-eyes at each other and playing footsie under the table, as if you'd never interrupted. The damned woman has a laugh like a dying duck, you're not sure how he can stand it, but every single fucking time she giggles like a candy-hyped toddler he gets this… this sappy, lovestruck look on his face.

_I'm completely retarded and I think this stupid slut is actually funny,_ is what his expression is telling you. You bet that's what he's actually thinking, too, because it _has_ to be an act, there is no way a couple is that disgustingly happy. You know for a fact that fairy tales ain't real; shit doesn't go down like these two are pretending. In a fakey fake way that is totally and without a doubt fictitious and completely fabricated.

Nope, this is how it goes down: there's the question, sometimes not even really asked - "yo you're hot, we should date," or "you're not seeing anyone, are you?" or, your personal favorite, "i've got some time to kill, we should fuck." The fucking happens (or sometimes doesn't, those aren't even worth the effort), and then it's over. Couples don't just _happen_ and then continue to be, like this obnoxious giggly pair, in here every goddamned week. You don't buy it; it's probably a bet or something.

You bet fucking Dirk paid them just to annoy you or some shit. That would be just like him; make his lil bro's job as unbearable as fucking possible, he knows how much people like this annoy you. You wonder how much faking being deliriously happy once a week would cost, and you hope it broke his fucking bank.

You're shaken out of your daydreams of swimming in endless oceans of cash by a very loud laugh - almost as obnoxious as Duck Woman's, who would've thought it was even possible? - as three people walk through the door, setting off the damned little jingle of the bell perched over the entrance.

(You've thought about ripping the fuckin' thing right off the wall so many times, now, it's a wonder you still have hair, it should all be yanked loose by now. Not that you'd ever drop your suave coolkid disposition to do something as unironically lame as tearing at your gorgeous locks, but when every fucking day you set off that thing, it starts to grate. You've talked to the manager about it at least eighty times, but Vriska just tells you to "deal with 8t, Str8der! You're a toler8nt guy. ::::D")

The group, now sitting at a booth in the corner, consists of three people - one dude with black hair that literally looks like he just rolled out of bed - no, scratch that, even _bed hair_ isn't that messy - a girl that looks like she could be his twin, except she has green eyes instead of his bright, electric blue ones (what the fuck, "electric blue"? What does that even mean? Is he a giant fucking mecha robot that's going to shoot lasers out of his eye sockets or something? They're fucking _blue,_ dipshit, and that's the end of it), and a blonde chick with creepy dark lipstick, who is just smiling softly at the other two, with a kind of quiet amusement.

(You bet she's annoyed as fuck and is only here because telling them no would be even more annoying than going and spending an hour in their presence, jesus _christ_ they are loud and annoying.)

You approach the table with your patented Strider stealth (you got that shit copyrighted months ago, the diploma's hanging in your room) almost immediately after they are seated (you may be a dick, but you are good at your job, regardless of what Vriska m8ght say, goddammit). "I'm Dave, I'll be your server today. Can I get you guys anything to drink?" you say quietly, smooth as glass.

Your voice is pitched low, and you're sure the two darkheaded Giggly Motherfuckers miss what you say completely because they're being so fucking _loud,_ but the blonde chick (she didn't even flinch, and you came up right behind her, dammit) just turns gracefully to you and replies, "I'd like a coffee, if you don't mind. Black. These two will take a ginger ale and an iced tea. And we have one more that will be joining us momentarily, so if you could prepare a second identical coffee, that would be lovely, Dave."

Her voice is nearly as soft as yours. The other two just stare - a bit disoriented, if their faces are anything to go by - at your sudden appearance and the blonde's quick recitation of their orders, without missing so much as a beat. You break eye contact with the scary blonde to flick a glance at the other two, with the slightest movement of your head so they know you're looking at them, and they nod slightly in approval.

"Yeah, Rose knows us pretty well I guess!" the girl says, and fuck, there go the giggles again, and the two are right back to making idiots of themselves in the middle of your place of work. And now they're flinging little paper tabletop footballs at each other. Fantastic.

"Right. I'll be back with those in a bit," you say with a small nod, and the blonde girl smiles politely at you, and then the other two give you these big, friendly grins that show all of their (horrible, very prominent, doofy-looking) teeth.

And because you were not watching the dark-haired boy, his smile did not just cause your stomach to do this bullshit fluttery damsel-ish business. You did not give it permission to do that, and that was not a thing that happened.

You abscond the fuck out of there, unable to suffer the pair's bubbly presence for another second (although you admit the chick might've been alright, you could probably tolerate the likes of her in here every so often, even though she is one creepy fucker).

You get the feeling this day might be longer than usual, and you're not someone who cavalierly screws around when it comes to Time.


End file.
